Certain Dark Things
by Kiana Caelum
Summary: Two part story. Faeries, assassins, magic and a missing soulmate.
1. The Shadow

Written off the back of a request from the lovely Rachel. Inspiration taken loosely from Hans Christien Andersen's fairytale, The Shadow. Links to _Cruel to be Kind_, and of course to _Chimera._

**Certain Dark Things**

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved;  
In secret, between the shadow and the soul  
_

In the disused ballroom, the strains of ghostly music played.

She laboured to hear it – soft, tantalising, and fading away on the low note of a violin. Then there was nothing but the winter wind whistling through the broken panes of glass, ruffling her hair with cold fingers.

The room was huge and hollow and empty of anything but rubble and a decaying painting on one wall in a tarnished frame. The rich decorations were worn away by time and weather, the gilding long scored from the wallpaper, which itself was peeling away in long curled strips. Glass crunched under her boots: it glittered in her wake as Chatoya Irkil walked through the ballroom.

Magic gleamed around her, small green flecks that darted from her fingers to flit about the room. The shadows rolled back like turf, revealing only decrepitude.

She stood in the midst of it all, searching, waiting, a fistful of fire in her hand and her face grim.

Nothing.

And then a drift of laughter, cruel as his kiss, washed over her and was gone before she could follow it. Beneath it, she heard something she recognised, something that raked over her nerves and made fire flare about her like an eerie corona.

One word, in a voice that echoed through her like her own heartbeat.

"_Never._"

"Blue?" Chatoya gasped, before she could stop herself, his name reverberating from the rafters.

But there was no answer. Only shadows and the winter wind singing through the empty space around her.

oOo

"Anything?"

The question was nonchalant, as if the speaker didn't much care about the answer. But the very fact that Therese Orage had accompanied Chatoya to the old manor house told another story.

"I thought I heard music." Gravel crunched under her feet as she strode down the curving drive to the car. "And – and him."

Therese was perched on the hood, huddled inside a thick wool coat. She was turning a cream envelope between gloved fingers, the silver ink flashing under the sunlight. For a moment, her hands stilled. "Bane? You're certain?"

"It sounded like him, but..."

Therese sighed. "But we're dealing with the Fey, and nothing is as it seems. Damn. I'd hoped it was a prank."

"It's hardly Blue's style," Chatoya remarked. "I don't think he's ever liked playing damsel in distress."

"Probably because he'd look dreadful in a dress," Therese muttered with her usual graveyard humour, and Chatoya stifled a smile. "No, you're right. He would never use the Fey as pawns. More than anyone, he knows the folly of such tricks."

The air seemed a little colder at the reminder than Blue had lived in the twilight lands for a while: he'd gone willingly to the faeries to learn their ways, which were ancient and cruel and unforgiving. Chatoya had met their queen once. The experience had scarred her in ways she could not quantify, except that some nights she woke, and thought the shadows in her room too deep, that sometimes she would glance at her reflection and glimpse a flicker in the background of the mirror.

"Then it's real," she said, her heart heavy as lead. "The Fey have taken him."

Therese's dark eyes were troubled. "Can you sense him at all?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"Then we'd better assume he's in their kingdom." She smacked the hood with a fist: it dented as if it were cardboard. "The covenant between us and them is carved on his back, and the idiot lets them drag him off!"

"I think he fought," Chatoya said softly. "His office...I didn't tell you before, because I needed to be sure..."

The memory of it flashed into her head: the desk overturned, with claw marks spiralling around the legs. Glass shards scattered upon the dark carpet like a thousand constellations. She'd had to step over the ruins of his laptop, the fluttering scraps of files – and when she'd seen the red smears upon the broken window, her blood had run cold.

"It was a mess. Completely destroyed. The invitation was about the only undamaged thing in the room. It was in the safe-"

"You know the combination for his safe?" Therese said, startled.

She felt a faint flush. "He doesn't know that."

The vampire was silent. Then her dark mouth curled into a smile. "Better concoct a good story then. He won't be pleased. So someone has finally had the audacity to kidnap Bane. Question is, do we have the audacity to go and get him back?"

"Do we have a choice?" Chatoya asked, soft. "He's the only thing keeping the Fey from this world."

A sudden flash of Therese's eyes. "Not the only thing. Just the most important one. Well, then. We have an invitation."

"No," Chatoya pointed out. "Blue does."

Therese whirled the envelope in her hands again, then she drew out the invitation inside. No mistaking the brown ink that it had been written in, flaking faintly from the paper. "Mmm...the wording, I think, is a little careless."

She read it out, her voice cool and emotionless. "Her eternal and enduring majesty Titania of the twilight lands requires the presence of Bane Malefici at the Last Dance, a most elegant masquerade held in the glorious past of Purview House during the month of the blue moon. Entrance through the Great Hall of 1808, invitation only."

Therese paused. "We have the invitation. Nothing to say it has to be Bane who uses it..."

Her voice trailed off: and Chatoya saw her focus had slid over her shoulder, and the calculation in her face had become exasperation.

"Or indeed, anyone at all," she finished acidly. "Welcome back, Bane. Did you enjoy yourself?"

Chatoya whipped around. And there he was, sauntering across the drive as if he hadn't a care in the world with a black domino mask dangling from one hand and a champagne glass in the other that was filled with some glittering orange drink.

"Enjoyment is such an imprecise term," he remarked. "But I suppose it'll do. A good time was had by all." He drained the drink, and with one swift movement, hurled it back at the house. It exploded on the wall, and glass glittered like rain in the air. "Well. Almost all."

She reached for him along the soulmate link – and hit a wall as smooth and impassable as marble. "Your office-"

Those icy eyes swept her from top to toe with one scathing look. "My witch, surely you weren't foolish enough to mistake a little rough and tumble for actual peril."

"Rough and tumble?" she echoed, anger slowly building inside her. "If that's your idea of rough and tumble-"

His smile gleamed with a dangerous edge: his voice had a sudden, devastating intimacy that quite took away her words. "You know full well it is."

Therese made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "Enough, Bane. You survived the twilight lands, then."

"Of course." His eyebrows arched. "Did you ever doubt it?"

And though she couldn't put a finger on it, something about those words stayed with Chatoya through the drive back. Because although fury rendered her mute, although she spent the next hour struggling not to kick him in the confines of the car, the answer rattled about her mind, defying his arrogance and his surety and his survival.

_Did you ever doubt it?_

Yes.

oOo

Days passed, and her niggling doubts grew into full-blown suspicion. Blue was acting out of character.

She had become used to him, she realised, as one becomes used to the long darkness of winter. And while no one else seemed to notice that he was not quite himself, she did.

Although she'd never really thought of it before, there were certain hallmarks of his behaviour that were moments of intimacy, of possession, of familiarity. A brush of fingers on her wrist, the sudden weight of his eyes, dark with passion or promise; the certain secret gleam of a smile she'd seen under other circumstances.

Now she saw none of them. In fact, the opposite: he went out of his way to avoid touching her, which at first enraged her. It was hardly a new cruelty, but it was effective. But when Lisa remarked on his absence with an air that was relived and yet puzzled, Chatoya put aside her anger and began to watch him more closely.

Every time she reached along the soulmate link, she hit that strange impassable wall. That left her with no clues other than what her senses could tell her.

Despite his aversion to her, Blue was no crueller than usual – his words lacked their usual bite, as if he was unsure of just what would hurt her. Chatoya was in many ways relieved: but another part of her knew that was very, very odd.

Nor was she alone.

oOo

"Chatoya?" Vaje Chusson looked startled when he opened the door to the ruin he and Aspen called home. "Is this official?"

"Aspen asked me over," she said.

He blinked. "Huh. Not sure he remembers that, but come in."

She picked her way over the heaps of DIY equipment the boys had piled up in the hallway. The walls were covered in samples of paint, and the place smelled of sawdust and glue with an underlying aroma of damp.

"Hey, Martin!" Vaje shouted. "Houseguest!"

"What?" came a muffled voice. "Why are you inviting people over, Vaje, the place is a wreck!"

She followed Aspen's voice to its source and found him on the floor in a spacious if shambolic living room with a heap of electrical components scattered around him and a lawnmower with broken blades.

"You invited me," she said.

The vampire looked up, mismatched eyes wide. She'd inherited Pursang from him, but she tried not to hold that against him and he tried not to regret it too much. From his sudden sunny grin, he was succeeding. "Chatoya! I did, didn't I? I forgot." He jumped to his feet then hesitated. "Um, can I hug you?"

"I can just about bear it," she said wryly, and he gave her a quick, clumsy hug, looking delighted. "What's this about, Aspen?"

"Good question," Vaje said, settling onto the battered sofa. "Between trying to mow the carpet – no, I'm really not kidding-"

"I thought it was a vacuum cleaner," Aspen said meekly, and she noticed the large patches missing from the carpet, and the beige fluff everywhere.

"-and putting bubble bath into the washing machine, we're not exactly a show home." The shapeshifter sighed. "Don't go in the kitchen, that's all I can say. I've spent six hours trying to clean foam off the ceiling."

"Yeah, it's a mess," Aspen said. "But at least no one will overhear us here."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated. "Um. Have you seen Blue lately?"

Both of them watched her. They were two of the six people in the Furies who knew that Blue was her soulmate: perhaps the only two who understood just how fraught and frightening and fantastic such a bond was.

"No," she admitted. "I get the feeling he's avoiding me."

"He's acting kind of..." Aspen's thin face scrunched up in concentration. "...weird."

"Seconded," Vaje said curtly.

It was confirmation of what she herself had thought. "In what way?"

Aspen rocked one hand back and forth. "It's hard to say. Something's off. We went out to play pool, yeah, and I won."

"Is that weird?" she said blankly.

"Not exactly. I've beat him before." Aspen shot her a nervous glance. "There was the time I put Valium in his drink. And the time I gave him a dead leg right as he went for the 8 ball...and that time he'd been awake for three days straight..."

"I get your point," she said.

"Yeah. And we were talking, but it wasn't like it usually is." Aspen gave her a helpless look. "Um. It was...I dunno..."

She looked at him expectantly, not sure what he was getting at.

He exhaled. "I didn't feel like he was thinking about ruining my life just for the hell of it."

"That's unlike him," she acknowledged, "but he could have been having a good day."

"Maybe," Vaje chipped in. "But I wound up in a meeting with him yesterday. He asked how I was."

"He does do that," she said.

The shapeshifter raked a hand through his dark hair. "Yeah. But he actually listened to the answer."

Chatoya blinked. "Okay. That is weird. Something's going on."

"Yep." Vaje shrugged. "And if he's avoiding you..."

"...then there's something he doesn't want me to know," she finished softly. "And I'd better find out what."

oOo

"This is...unusual," Therese Orage remarked in a husky voice that had only the slightest edge of doubt. "Are you certain?"

Her gaze was focused on the man inside the cell. He was unconscious on the floor, his cobalt blue hair glaring against the black tiles of the floor. Three hours had passed since Chatoya dumped him in there, and he hadn't so much as twitched.

After all, he was a vampire, and a crowbar to the head, while nobody's definition of fun, shouldn't have knocked him out for three hours.

"Positive," Chatoya said. "If it's Blue, he's either had some serious head trauma-"

"It looks like he has," she said dryly, gesturing to the blood congealed on his right temple.

"That was me."

Her eyebrows raised, and she gave Chatoya a very thoughtful look. She'd shaved off her hair long ago, and that only made her eyes seem larger, the most striking feature in a striking face. "You knocked him out? On your own?"

"Exactly," she said. "Whatever that thing is, it isn't Bane Malefici."

She gave a slow nod. Her gaze rested on the doppelganger, her expression unreadable. "You're sure."

"Certain." She let out her breath, trying not to show how jarred she was. "He hadn't touched me since he got back from that masquerade. Now I know why. No soulmate link."

That got Therese's attention. The chains that ran from her nose to her ears clinked as her head snapped up. "Then what is it – and more importantly, where on earth is Bane?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "I can hazard a guess, though. I think it's a changeling."

Her eyes flicked back to the man in the cell. "Yes. It could be. It is a remarkable imitation."

"But it is only an imitation," she said quietly. "Sticks and stones and faerie bones."

"And a name," Therese added. She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "One can't bring a changeling to life without a name. So. We were fooled."

"The Fey still have him," Chatoya said. And they could not afford to lose him. She could not.

"Then we had better find out where and why," Therese said. A faint smile curled over her mouth. "I think you should leave it with me."

Their eyes met. Chatoya did not look away from the emptiness there, and she did not fear it. Instead, she hardly hesitated before she said calmly, "Iron burns them."

Therese's eyebrows arched as if startled. Then she laughed, the sound gentle and warm. "I know."

oOo

The following morning took them back to Purview House, squat upon its estate like a vast toad. Ivy laced the crumbling walls with a strangler's grip, hiding some of its fading glory. High above, the fading sliver of the moon warned them how little time remained.

"It seems that we underestimated his value to them," Therese remarked. A gun was slung over one hip, iron enough to bring death to the twilight lands. "Titania played a clever game when she renegotiated the accord."

"I should have known," Chatoya said grimly. "She even told me – she called Blue the murderer of her firstborn son."

Therese scowled. "Which would not have been such an issue had he not also been Titania's only son. Only Bane would have the utter arrogance to stroll into the twilight lands and deprive the queen of her heir. Only he would be brazen enough to commit an act of war and then have the very treaty preventing it carved onto his back. I can't think what he hoped to gain!"

Chatoya sighed. "Same as usual, I imagine. Power."

"Then he should have thought about what he had to lose," Therese said sharply. "Everything."

oOo

Inside the ballroom, the silence was complete. She looked around, searching for an entrance. "This is the Great Hall."

"Not so great now," Therese said, stalking along the walls with a keen eye. "Any idea what this entrance will look like?"

"None." Chatoya scoured the floor in hope of a clue. The wooden panels were rotten in places, but the holes led only to dirt. The ceiling offered no more clues: thin grey light slunk through the broken roof, illuminating only rafters and cobwebs.

"Hmm. Could be behind this," the lamia said thoughtfully and Chatoya glanced over to see her gazing at the grimy picture she'd noticed on her last visit. "It's easily big enough to hide a portal."

"Maybe." She joined Therese. The frame gleamed dully, a pattern of intricate loops and whorls broken only by the round dimples of screws. "It looks like it's nailed on." Chatoya felt the frame tentatively – then her fingers hit a smooth part of the frame. She glanced down, and saw a plaque.

"Not a problem," Therese said breezily. "Stand back."

"Wait." She scrubbed at the metal. Gradually words revealed themselves. _The Great Hall of 1808_. "Look!"

Therese whistled. "The painting's the entrance. Clever."

With a twist of her fingers, white light blazed brightly in the ballroom, and for the first time, the painting was revealed in its full glory.

It was the ballroom as it had been in bygone days: a glittering, glamorous whirl of people. The tables were heaped with a cornucopia of food, shiny fruit and gleaming rare meat and towering sugar confections. Wine was dark red, blood red, a stain against the pale hands that held it – and everywhere she looked, she saw masks, animals, gods, demons, none concealing the gleam of inhuman eyes.

On the dancefloor, couples were frozen in mid-step, but here and there details peeking out from their rainbow finery proclaimed their nature. A hoof protruding from a lady's vast skirts. A claw bare inches from a girl's pale throat. Gauzy wings that were not mere costume.

Presiding over it all, majestic upon a throne that seemed made of antlers, the Fey queen in her icy splendour.

And there-

Chatoya gasped.

He was at her right hand, as if he were her heir and not her prisoner, but there the honours ended. His hands were shackled above his head with wooden manacles: a wooden collar enclosed his neck, and was attached by a rope of his wrists so that his head was back, throat bared. His chest was bare, covered in horrific wounds that left him blackened with blood, unable defend himself. Beside him was a brazier with cherry-red implements upon it: and what looked like pieces of bamboo.

"The fool," Therese said softly, and Chatoya knew she had seen it too. "At least he is still alive."

She swallowed down a lump in her throat. It unnerved her to see Blue helpless. "We'd better make sure he stays that way then."

"How do we get in?"

She looked at the invitation in her hand. There was magic in it, though she didn't know quite what.

"Hold onto me," she said, and as Therese obeyed, she touched the invitation to the painting. It gleamed gold: and the writing swirled into a wash of black that spread across the card, and then out onto the canvas until it was a shifting mass of shadow.

The pair of them gazed the portal. It was the final day of the blue moon: the last chance they had to enter the twilight lands on their terms, as guests. That was small protection, but better than nothing.

"If we had discovered the changeling a day later..." muttered Therese.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Chatoya couldn't stop her sour smile. "He has to be the first evil twin to be revealed because he wasn't quite evil enough."

Therese laughed, a smoky twist of sound that the still air seemed to swallow. "Indeed. Perhaps there's hope for us. I doubt the Fey have any idea of Bane's capacity to irritate."

"They don't call us Furies for nothing."

They looked at one another: two women who ruled a world of sunlight and midnight as surely as the fey queen in eternal twilight. Green eyes met black: and though they had stood on opposing sides a dozen times and would do so a dozen more, there was a moment of understanding as strong as iron. Like him or loathe him, and it was a little of both, Blue Malefici belonged to them.

Therese straightened. She flexed her fingers as if readying herself for a fight. "Very true. Well, Chatoya, shall we live up to our legend?"

Chatoya gave her a fierce smile. "I thought we already were."

With no further hesitation, they stepped through: into the Last Dance, into a masquerade of shadows and illusions, into eternal winter and eternal twilight for a promise as transitory as one man's life.

oOo

Comments adored!


	2. The Soul

Thank you to all the lovely people who commented: thank you **mudkiprox, Marie Vulffe, ChaR17, myfavoriteperson, Darlene2006, xhinglian **(Thank you! Glad the suspense is there), **Izzy **(Thanks - I do enjoy writing about the Fey, and the way that they influence the world. They're always hungry for more.), **untilhellfreezesover, Anterrabae, ParanormaLove, **and finally, the brilliant **blahberghy**

Feedback is very much adored! I'd love to know what you think.

**Certain Dark Things**

_I got lost in the night, without the light _  
_of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me _  
_I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness_

Darkness enclosed them, entire and icy.

"Can you see anything?" she said, her voice soft. The back of her neck prickled with the weight of unseen stares.

"No. If these are the twilight lands, they should sack their PR," muttered Therese. Chatoya heard her feet scuffing on the ground as the vampire moved. "Ah! Turn around."

A pinprick of gold light far ahead glimmered, as small and significant as the North Star.

"Think it's a trap?" Chatoya said.

"It's the Fey. Of course it is." The vampire sighed. "Think we have any other choice?"

"It's the Fey. Of course not."

So Chatoya and Therese walked through shadows as time unwound around them. The world was distilled down to this: cold as deep as an ocean, darkness as black as hate, silence as final as death.

When she began to discern the silhouette of the vampire at her side, Chatoya realised the gloom was lifting. It was replaced by twisting bands of mist. The fog crept everywhere, collecting like dew on her hair, shining on her skin, weighing down her clothes. As the light intensified, a tension she hadn't been aware of melted from her shoulders and hands. The damp was better than the dark, where anything might hide.

Then it happened. Something moved at the periphery of her vision.

She spun sharply, a spell on her lips. Nothing but the drifting mist...and behind it, a dark shape that kept pace with them.

"Something's out there," she murmured, lips barely moving

"Undoubtedly." Therese ran her fingers over the gun on her hip. "As long as it stays out there, it's not a problem."

Chatoya glanced over at her. "And if it doesn't?"

She smiled. It was as cold and dark and final as the way back. "Then the Fey will learn to be careful who they invite into their realms."

"We're guests. The minute we open hostilities, we'll be in exactly the same situation as Blue. I can't imagine anyone rushing to our rescue."

"What do you suggest?"

Chatoya eyed the mists, then called up her power. "Caution."

A ball of magic flared in her closed fist, electric blue light seeping between her fingers. She approached the shape, which wavered. The mists parted before her like gauze...

And she saw her own reflection.

She stopped, startled, and lifted her hand. Light spilled onto the surface, throwing back a pale glow that barely penetrated the mists. But it was enough to show that the walls were paved with mirrors.

"Therese," she said softly.

"I see."

There were echoes of herself in the grotesque parodies that filled each panel, but that was all. This one had the remnants of her black hair, shorn until only straggling clumps remained. Another had torn and bleeding hands, the nails ripped away, clamped to her face. It was rake-thin, all protruding bones and papery skin. A third looked just like her at a glance, but she felt the wrongness of it crawling over her skin. Then she saw the cruel edge to the smile, an emptiness in her eyes that was as vast as the fall down to hell.

Chatoya had no doubt that they were under observation. She pressed her lips together, determined that she would not let them unsettle her. The Fey bathed in fear as if it were sunlight, as if they could draw out the warmth and the love of the world to breathe life into this sterile wasteland.

"Creepy," she muttered. "But not even close to the scariest thing I've seen this year."

"Really?" Therese joined her. In the mirror, an ancient effigy of her tottered into view, skin flaking, dried blood caked on its shrivelled lips.

"Really. Unless there's something scarier than watching a drunk shapeshifter gyrate to the Time Warp."

Therese stifled a sound suspiciously like a laugh. Her airy tone was a match for Chatoya's, both of them pretending indifference. "You've never seen Aspen and Blue cook. Put a control freak and a madman in a room full of electric things with blades, and the only recipe you've got is for disaster."

The reflections gibbered at them. Chatoya glanced over at Therese: the vampire gave a small nod. As one, they turned away and strolled up the hallway, apparently oblivious.

In reality, her stomach was lurching.

"Blue can cook?" she said, her voice a little strangled.

"No. Blue most emphatically cannot cook. He can, however, burn, melt, boil or explode any meal of your choice. He's the only person I've ever met for whom Death by Chocolate is a possibility rather than a dessert."

Chatoya digested this. Unlike, apparently, Blue's cooking. It helped her to ignore the misshapen reflections that paralleled their passage along the hall. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Just keep his food out of your stomach," advised Therese. "He's..."

She cut off. It took only a second for Chatoya to realise why.

The mists were flooding the hall in a haze of grey, arching over them like a wave. Chatoya retreated, but it was futile - fine grey tendrils cascaded onto her, carrying magic in their coils. Her own power rose to the surface, battling the intrusion, and for a moment, she let it.

And then she wondered if the Fey might consider that a hostile act.

It took an effort to stand still and let alien spells slide over her, but then she felt the familiar tingle of a glamour. It went no deeper than her skin, lying on it as lightly as sunlight.

"Hold still," she called to Therese. "It's just a glamour."

She couldn't fathom the purpose of it, but the Fey were notoriously fond of tricks and illusions.

Mist swam before her eyes, gleaming silver, until it was so thick that she could not see her hand in front of her face. She found herself breathing shallowly, reluctant to inhale so much as an atom of faery dust, unable to free herself from its treacherous caress.

"I don't think I've ever felt anything less glamorous," came Therese's reply. "Are you sure it's not dangerous?"

"The spell itself can't hurt you."

"Just the consequences of it, then," the vampire said tartly.

The haze was dissipating. The hallway came back into focus, revealing shiny white tiles beneath their feet and an infinity of mirrors streaming off into the distance; and she, reflected in them, raised her hand to her face, astonished at what she saw.

Her practical clothes had been replaced by a clinging dress that was an unforgettable blue: the colour of a breaking dawn, of lightning's edge, of a flame's cold heart. It was a message she could not ignore, one that named her as his. It revealed more of her body than she was comfortable with, but then she suspected that was intentional. Against the rich fabric, her hair was black as night, pouring down her back. She would not have been out of place in a king's court, but it was a queen she had come to see, a queen of twilight and nightmares. A thousand copies stood in the mirrors so all she could see was what the faery queen had made of her.

Then she saw a flash of orange: she turned, and Therese was puddled on the floor in a rustling mess of satin and gold jewellery, head buried in her arms. Bangles marched up her arms like manacles, studded with garnets and diamonds. She was shivering, Chatoya saw, and it sent a wave of alarm through her.

"Therese?" she said softly, uncertain.

And then the vampire lifted her head, and Chatoya gasped.

Her hair had grown back.

No: it was an illusion, but a convincing one. She had never really imagined Therese with hair, and it came as something of a shock. Luxurious auburn curls cascaded around her face, muting the impact of her dark eyes, lessening the aggressive edge of her beauty.

Strange. Chatoya didn't think it was a change for the better.

"I cut it off," Therese said in a husky voice. She looked younger, lost, like a girl stood up at her first prom. "I cut it all off when I was twelve. He told me I was a pretty girl, so I didn't want to be pretty anymore. I thought if I was ugly, he'd leave me alone."

She didn't know what to say: there was nothing she could say as ghosts poured out upon the air like smoke, until they crowded the narrow hall.

"Everyone else had already left. My mother had run with Ri, but I wouldn't go with her because I thought...I loved my father, but he left me too because power meant more. Blue was gone and Cougar had run and Aspen was broken and no one could keep him away anymore."

She knelt down beside her, feeling a fool in her outlandish clothes "He's dead," she said quietly. "I killed him. I just wish someone had done it sooner."

Perhaps she should have felt remorse for that death: but she didn't. What she did feel was a keen need to introduce the first Fey she saw to a pointy piece of iron.

She leaned close to Therese, lips to her ear.

"Don't let her get into your head," Chatoya urged. "Titania wants us wounded. While we're her guests, we're protected, unless she can trick us into a mistake. She knows what will hurt you. Don't let her."

The vampire's breath evened out, and she lifted her head, her gaze direct. "Now that's an idea."

Chatoya blinked, mystified. "What is?"

A wobbly smile curled on Therese's lips: it steadied, and became something colder, something pure predator. Her mental voice filtered into Chatoya's mind, carrying with it old pain, fresh anger, both funnelled into a sharp, clever revenge.

In the mirror, their reflections heard nothing. And though they kept pace with the two women as they rose and continued to the Last Dance, they saw only what they expected to see: a pair of mortals clothed in glamour in a world of seeming, of cobwebs and dreams, a pair of mortals unaware that no faerie spell could ever fool them as they fooled themselves.

After all, what greater illusion was there than that of hope?

oOo

At the end of the hall was a pair of ornate doors. A woman stood beside them, drooping like a snowdrop. When she turned to gaze at them Chatoya checked, unable to keep her composure.

Her eyes had been gouged out. Old bloodstains obscured her face like prison bars.

"Welcome," the woman said. Her voice was as clear, younger than the grey in her hair suggested. "Enter, be merry and forget the shadows beyond."

"Interesting," murmured Therese. She had stared ahead all the way, not even glancing at her reflection. Her poise was back, her analytical mind with it. "She's human."

Chatoya noted the manacles that had left abrasions on the woman's bony arms. "Are you a prisoner here?"

The question seemed to startle the woman. "You're no faerie."

Her empty eyesockets gleamed suddenly: a red light collected in them, and fresh blood leaked down her face. Chatoya felt the power saturating the air like steam, but it was entirely unfamiliar.

"So you have come at last," the woman said, and a savage grin split her face. "I saw you long ago, the viper queen and the reluctant rebel. Well did Titania name her masquerade, for this dance shall be the last of the old world, and whether you live or die, the twilight lands will change forever."

"Who are you?" Therese said sharply.

"They called me Cassandra," the woman said. Blood glistened on her lips: she licked it away. "They called me mad because I spoke the truth. Hard to hear, the deep dark truth, hard to bear. But in a world of illusions, what's more useful than a woman who can see through them all?" Her chains clinked as she shifted. "I am Her Majesty's herald, and I shall reveal you to her as I have revealed them all."

"Does she treat all her heralds so kindly?" Chatoya asked, voice wry.

"I did not ask her for kindness," Cassandra said scornfully. "I asked only that my voice was heard. What are chains compared to belief? Nothing. What is a little pain for the truth? Nothing, and nothing, and nothing." Her voice became a vicious hiss. "Now _enter_, be merry, and forget the shadows beyond."

The doors swung open: sound crashed over them, swooning violins, chatter, the clink of glasses. They stood at the top of gleaming marble stairs that led down to the hall. There was colour everywhere, light everywhere – and at the sight of them, it all stopped.

Chatoya swallowed. She knew what they had to do. They stepped over the threshold. Behind them, Cassandra's voice rang out, booming through the room.

"Attending the Last Dance from the sunlit lands, Telerana Orage. The Viper Fury, Lady of the Razor Kiss, unforgiving as the winter wind, beautiful and cruel as the night, who once knew love, and with it mercy, she whose shadow weeps where she will not."

The last titles made Therese blanch. Nonetheless, she held her head high and went down the stairs with the sweeping grace of a debutante. But Chatoya was distracted by her shadow, rippling over the steps. As if in eerie echo of Cassandra's words, its hands were clasped to its face, shoulders bowed.

Therese had her hands by her side.

The crowds parted, leaving a corridor to the throne. To him. Chatoya could not look, for fear that she would not find the strength to make the long walk to Titania.

"Also attending from the sunlit lands, Chatoya Irkil, The Grieving Fury, witch of the woods, host to a traitor, who doubts her friends and trusts her enemies, who fears love more than death and who will die while she yet lives and who will live where all else dies, and in whose wake lies only horror."

Like flowers turning to the sun, the masked faces turned to her. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and Chatoya tried not to think about Cassandra's words. She had to move, she could not let them see that she was afraid.

The descent seemed endless.

At the bottom, she felt intensely vulnerable as she entered the narrow path they had left. The edges of her dress slid over their feet, over hooves and claws and expensive shoes. She passed a woman with leaves in places of her hair, reeking of wet grass. She ignored the leer of the man with four rows of teeth. Beneath the perfumes of jasmine and honeysuckle cloying the air was the rank, sickly stench of death. As she passed, she heard sighs, snarls, snuffling.

But none of them were anywhere near as frightening as the queen on her throne. The antlers spread out behind her like the bones of vast wings and the dress she wore, white as fresh-fallen snow, gave her the look of an eerie angel come to pass judgement.

Titania watched her, a small smile upon her lips.

Chatoya stopped just shy of the dais, beside Therese, and stared up at that cold, beautiful face. She did not curtsy.

"So you return to us," the queen said. Her voice rolled over the air like far-off thunder. "What brings you to our glorious dance?"

Truth, Chatoya reminded herself. Always and only the truth here. It's their only law.

"You have something that belongs to me," she said and met those empty eyes, the flat cool colour of twilight. "I came to ask for his return."

"This?"

Titania reached over, and plunged her fingers into the wounds on Blue's chest. He made no sound but Chatoya saw his stomach muscles tense. Instinct made her reach along the soulmate link, only to hit a wall – but one buckling, his pain crashing like tides against it. His control divided them, but it might not for long.

The queen smiled, and withdrew a hand scarlet with blood. "We have the better claim, witch of the woods."

"Your son," Chatoya said flatly.

"Our heir," Titania corrected. "We had no other. He who strikes the blood of the queen strikes the queen herself. We claim right of vengeance."

She examined the blood on her hand casually, then raised it her mouth. Chatoya suppressed a shudder and focused on her face.

"You have a claim," she said, choosing her words carefully. "But it is not better. I too claim him by right of vengeance. He slew my mother, my father, and my twin."

The queen stared her down, her smile never fading. "Then as a guest in our kingdom, and as one who knows the taste of loss, we shall allow you to share our revenge."

Checkmated. Chatoya looked into her eyes and saw nothing she recognised. "I have lost enough. I would have him live."

Titania laughed: the sound was like glass shattering. "As would we."

"Oh?" Therese said, sounding startled.

"We have lost one heir. But in his death, we have found an another, a better." Titania ran a hand down Blue's throat as casually as if he was a pet. Chatoya's fingers itched to slap her away. "He need only leave behind the sunlight and his name, and we shall raise him high enough to make a throne of the moon."

"Intriguing." The vampire frowned. "But I'm not really sure why you're torturing him."

"We have waited five years for his answer. And he has been foolish enough to think he could refuse. Now we must teach him the price of his insolence. We broke him once." She chuckled, a thick earthy sound. "We are patient enough to do so again."

Titania gave a nod: one of the Fey nearby picked up a brand from the brazier. When it hissed onto Blue's skin, his shields trembled, and she caught a breath of his fatigue, of his pain, of six days piled upon one another like lead. With it came two words, vicious and ragged.

_Get out._

Chatoya realised she was trembling. She wasn't sure if it was shock or rage. "He isn't yours to break."

"No?" Titania leaned forward, her hair bright as fire against her white dress. "Then whose is he?"

The word came from her in a snarl. "_Mine._"

"He was ours before he was yours. We have precedence."

Chatoya stood straight: and then advanced up the steps. Behind her, she heard the crowd gasp. Titania's eyes widened, full of outrage.

"You have nothing, little queen," she said, and it was Bhari's voice she spoke with, Bhari who rose through her blood like a fever. "Hael Drax was mine before he made you, before he cast you from ice and the empty night and stardust. He was mine in a burning world and he remains mine in a twilight world."

She bent down, her face inches from Titania's.

"And I _don't_ share," she said softly.

She never saw the queen move: she only felt hands like ice upon her throat, and she was lifted high in the air. Her feet kicked, her lungs burned, and she realised with terrible, terrifying intensity that she was no one but a witch in a faerie world, fighting for her life.

Then she was flying – no, thrown, without even enough breath to scream – and when she hit the floor, there was only the impact and pain and finally, mercifully, darkness.

oOo

Someone was shouting.

She could dimly hear their voice, but the meaning passed her by. The tiles were cool under her cheek, the air equally cool on her burning throat.

"...your idea of hospitality? We are your guests, and we have rights!"

It was Therese, she realised. And they were alone in a roomful of faeries whose queen they had just royally pissed off.

Chatoya opened her eyes. The orange of Therese's dress was in front of her. She struggled to her elbows, then onto her knees.

A nightmarish wall of masks surrounded them, glitter and feathers and lace. Behind them lay a multitude of eyes as hollow as an abyss. Therese faced down Titania, fists clenched at her sides. The faerie queen's hair was loose about her shoulders, a torrent of fire, and her teeth were bared to reveal jagged fangs.

"Our invitation was not addressed to you," the queen snapped.

"Your sloppy wording is not my problem. Are we or are we not your guests?"

The silence was total. Chatoya heaved herself onto her feet. Everything ached horribly, especially her ribs. She'd probably cracked one in the fall. Breathing hurt: moving hurt. But she wasn't sure she could afford to use her magic to heal herself.

She looked the faerie in those empty eyes, bright with malice – and mouthed one word, one truth.

_Mine_.

Titania's face contorted. The bones of her face shifted, mutating into something haggard and hungry. "_Never,_" she spat.

Chatoya lurched to Therese's side. The vampire put out a steadying arm, and Chatoya took it gratefully. Her voice was a rasp. "Liar!"

Therese said, in exact imitation of the queen's voice, "Then as a guest in our kingdom, and as one who knows the taste of loss, we shall allow you to share our revenge."

Titania's face froze. Her mouth opened – and around them, the masks turned one by one to their queen. Something snarled.

The word rose like the rustle of leaves in the wind – _liarliarliarliar..._

The faerie stepped back – and again, and then she ran, streaking from the hall like a comet. But the faerie horde were after her, howling and screeching, chasing down their own queen, who had abdicated from the truth, and from her throne with it. Some, she was sure, were weeping. Others laughed.

The windows shattered, the tables were overturned as if they weighed nothing until the floor was stained with trampled food, the tiles slick with spilled wine. And then there was nothing but a last plate rolling into the wall. And them, of course, somehow still standing.

"Well done," Therese said quietly. "Exactly as planned."

Chatoya found she was shaking. "They turned on her."

From the moment Therese had explained what they had to do, she had known what the end must be. Yet seeing it was something else entirely.

"For now." Therese supported her as they crept towards the dais and Blue. "She's ruled them since time immemorial. Without her, they'll crumple, and I suspect they know it. No, it won't be long before Titania rules the twilight again."

"Great," she muttered. "And when that day comes, she'll be gunning for us."

"Of course. But we shan't make it easy. I certainly won't be back in a hurry."

"It's not you I'm worried about," retorted Chatoya. She stumbled up the steps, up to Blue.

She could not stop herself: she put a hand to his shoulder, trying to find an unmarked piece of his skin. The link leapt to life – and with it came a firestorm of pain, hot and sharp and unrelenting. She jerked back, gasping.

"What?" Therese paused. She had a knife to the rope at his neck.

Chatoya pressed a hand to her throbbing temples. "Hurt. Gods. Oh gods, that hurt."

The vampire's lips thinned. "Can you feel anything now?"

She paused, and listened. There were the aches of her own body, but Blue was locked away again. "No."

"That's promising. He's still got some control left." With a slice of the knife, the first rope fell. His head lolled forward; pain spiked through Chatoya and she doubled over. She knew what it was to feel her muscles turn to barbed wire, for the mere weight of the air to be agony.

Then it was gone. Therese was watching her with clinical interest.

"I'm okay," she said raggedly.

She could hear the faint hiss of Blue's breath. Anxious. Chatoya peered into his face. His eyes were half-open, dark as the deep ocean. She could see no light in them.

"Blue?" she said softly.

His eyelids twitched. He said something, but she couldn't discern the word. His voice was rough, soft, unfamiliar.

Therese sliced the ropes that bound his hands. And he fell, limp as a puppet. Agony exploded through her: Chatoya didn't know she was screaming until it cut off abruptly, and she was left shuddering, racked with the aftermath.

"He's out," Therese said grimly. She was knelt over Blue, examining him. Her fingers probed the wounds, light and careful. Her breath sucked in. "Damn."

"What?" she croaked.

Those black eyes met hers. "These burns aren't healing. The cuts I can understand – bamboo – but the brands were iron."

"What does that mean?" she said, unable to grasp it. She'd never seen a vampire fail to heal from anything that wasn't wood or fire.

"His immune system's shot to pieces. Too much to heal. He needs blood."

She realised at once what Therese was implying. "No. Not from me."

"Well it can't be me," she said impatiently. "You're his soulmate."

"Yes, his soulmate. Not a snack." It was the one line she had drawn. She would be a thousand things to Blue – his most ferocious enemy, his closest ally, his conscience, his trial of fire – but not prey. "I can heal him."

"Will he walk away afterwards?"

Chatoya hesitated, then shook her head. Even that hurt. "If it's that bad, any healing will drain his energy to nothing. The best I can do is close the wounds."

"And once you've done that, you're out of power," Therese said grimly. "Which means I have to carry him, protect you, and try and fight off any Fey who get ambitious. I suppose you could heal yourself instead. In which case, we end up in exactly the same situation – you drained of power, Blue about as much use as a sack of potatoes."

It was true: and she felt the inevitability of what she had to do.

"Or," Therese continued, her voice softer, "you can put aside your personal repugnance and give him your blood, and all your power with it. That should be enough to get him upright and scheming again. Between the two of us, we can get you out safely."

Chatoya closed her eyes. At last, she said, "I know. I'll do it."

Therese took her wrist carefully. The knife hovered over her palm. "You might want to look away," she murmured.

Obedient, Chatoya turned her head, gritting her teeth. It came so suddenly she had no chance to react – a white-hot sting that settled into a stomach-churning ache. She swore, gritty bitter words that would have made Cougar proud.

"That should do it..." the vampire said. Chatoya glanced back. There wasn't the slightest hint of appetite in Therese's expression, which spoke of truly formidable self-control. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air.

"He's still unconscious," she pointed out.

"Survival instincts," Therese said, gently dabbing a finger in the wound. "One word of warning..." She smeared a bit of the blood onto Blue's mouth. "Don't panic."

"Panic?" Chatoya stared at the lamia's impassive face. "Why would I..."

His eyelids flickered: he licked his lips, and then his eyes opened. They were a feral gold, savage, hungry and empty of control.

She found herself scrabbling to get away, but Therese's grip was like iron. He stirred, slow as a tiger stretching, and then he _moved_, and her neck was bared, her hands futilely trying to push him away because this was not her soulmate: this was a predator, and she was nothing to him.

She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck – then she felt him bite, and the soulmate link blazed like a star, consuming them both.

oOo

There was pain: too much pain, and most of it not hers. But every passing moment dulled it, until she was able to comprehend more than fire and metal and splinter-sharp wood. Until she could comprehend the shape of the other beside her, jagged edges and gleaming ice.

_Blue..._

She felt him answer as if from a long way away, amidst memories of slow-crafted torture in a ballroom. _My witch._

And she felt the truth of it in this place where truth mattered so much. She said, with something close to triumph, _Yes._

oOo

This time, her awakening was far more pleasant. She swam out of foggy dreams into soft sheets and a pillow that smelt of roses. Chatoya opened her eyes onto daylight, filtered into a gold haze by her curtains, and someone sat by her bed, sharpening a knife.

"Blue?" she croaked in complete astonishment.

It was. Chatoya sat up, staring. One side of his face was covered in bruises and he had a cut lip to match.

"Do I need to tell you that you're a moron?" he said.

No long-term damage to his personality, then. "I'm not the one that got kidnapped by faeries and replaced by a load of sticks and bones," she said tartly. "Which, incidentally, we only noticed because the magical copy was nicer than you."

He raised an eyebrow. "It may be nicer. But I am definitely better-looking."

Chatoya made a point of looking at his bruises. "Not at the moment. What happened?"

"Oddly, when I walked in carrying you and covered with blood, your friends all jumped to the wrong conclusion. And as my hands were full, I couldn't exactly defend myself from the chair that my brother threw at me."

Oh dear. Then a thought occurred to her. "Didn't Therese step in?"

His voice had a definite note of irritation. "No. She ducked."

Chatoya couldn't help herself: she laughed. She laughed until her ribs ached, and couldn't help but be relieved it was the only ache she had. Someone had done a good job on her wounds. Whether anyone had done the same favour for Blue was another matter.

"Titania made a mess of you," she remarked softly.

Those cool blue eyes never shifted from hers. "She certainly tried." He sounded...approving. "One has to hand it to her—"

"You did," Chatoya said, unable to stop herself.

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

"Oh, admit it, Blue," came Therese's voice from the door. She lingered on the threshold, wearing a half-smile. "You screwed up. You underestimated the Fey. And if they hadn't returned the compliment, you'd have been trapped in the twilight lands for the rest of time."

He looked at her evenly, then said, "Very well. I made a mistake. Rest assured, I won't make it again."

"Good." The vampire gave Chatoya a sly look. "We don't have time to keep dragging you out of trouble."

His mouth tightened. "Exactly how long are you intending to be smug about this?"

Therese shrugged one shoulder. "Until it gets boring." She paused. "Which may be never. Chatoya..." Her smile faded. Those dark eyes were almost hypnotic. Therese gave her a little bow and said very quietly, "You did well. I wouldn't want you as my enemy."

She smiled. "I'll try to avoid it."

"Me too. Blue – do try to remember that you have our treaty with the twilight lands carved onto your back, and for gods' sake, stop antagonising them." She smiled very sweetly. "And...you owe me."

"Hey..." A blonde head appeared behind her. Jepar' face lit up. "Toya, you're awake!"

He was gone in an instant: Chatoya could hear him bellowing downstairs, "Guys, guys – she's awake!"

Therese shuddered. "I feel an tender reconciliation coming on. Enjoy."

She was gone before Chatoya could answer, but her shadow lingered a moment longer – and Chatoya saw that it still wept, as if the truth had come back from the twilight land with her.

Blue, on the other hand, didn't move.

"Why are you still here?" Chatoya asked, a little bemused. "Florence Nightingale isn't exactly your style."

He went back to sharpening the knife. Blue sparks flicked off it onto her carpet. "If there's a better way to annoy my brother than the sure knowledge of us in the same room day and night, I've yet to find it."

It figured. "Suddenly I can see why the Fey thought you'd make an ideal king."

"I already have a kingdom," he said shortly. "And little as I may like it, I have a consort who is more than trickery and wishes." His eyes lifted to hers: direct and knowing and blazing. "Tell me, my witch, what was it you said to Titania that forced her into a lie?"

All that she had felt in the twilight lands rose in her again: possessive, fierce, unrelenting. She said nothing, but leaned forward, and touched the bruises he'd earned for her, as she had earned hers for him.

He caught her hand, and tugged: she tumbled into his arms, into a kiss that was all heat and need. There was something cool at her throat, cold where his mouth was warm.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the door opened – and she heard Cougar shout, "Oh, for fuck's sake!" before it slammed again.

She broke away, flushed, and caught Blue looking very satisfied. He had timed that deliberately, she was sure.

"I told her the truth about you," she said. "Was it my fault she didn't like what she heard?"

His eyes narrowed. But before he could reply, the door shrieked open again, and Jepar edged in cautiously.

"Um...is it safe to come in?"

Blue stood up. The knife gleamed in his hand and she realised it had been pressed to her throat for the duration of that kiss. She had noticed – but she hadn't cared.

"You decide," her soulmate said, and in that moment, she couldn't.

And that was nothing but the truth.

_Nihil verum nisi mors_

oOo

Thank you for reading! Comments adored.


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